


Tristan's seamstress and Isolde's knight

by delfe08



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Babies, Battle, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-22 20:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30044169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delfe08/pseuds/delfe08
Summary: One his way back from a scouting trip, Tristan, knight of the round table, stumbles upon a set of bandits assaulting a young woman. Despite his exhaustion, he cannot leave the deed unpunished. Thus was the way Isolde and Tristan met in the fifth century.
Relationships: Isolde the Fair/Tristan (Arthurian)
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

Hawk’s piercing cry startled the scout out of his daze, earning a swear word in Sarmatian. Another threat was the last thing he needed right now! A good bath, plenty of rest and loads of bandages upon the multiple injuries he had sustained being on top of the list. The price of dispatching a band of scouting Woads. Bruised and lacerated in too many places to count, Tristan kept his exhaustion at bay by gritting his teeth. Soon enough, he’d be at the wall, make his report to Arthur and pass out in the infirmary while the healers patched him up properly. Then he would sleep for three days in a row. Four, maybe…

Unfortunately, the Gods had decided to deny him the rest and drop a new ordeal in his lap. Another screech came from above, Hawk soaring so high that he nearly couldn’t spot her. Nearly. Tristan urged his horse to a gallop; if another group assaulted him, he might very well succumb this time. Exhaustion, blood loss and bruises had greatly impaired his ability to fight. A few bandits he might be able to handle, but warriors would have his skin if they attacked in numbers. Especially those blue painted devils.

Grinding his jaw to tolerate the pain and handle the gallop’s movement, Tristan distinguished the cries of a woman covering the pounding of hooves. A turn on the road later, he was rather shocked to stumble upon a scuffle. At once, he pulled the reins of his mare who neighed in protest, barely avoiding running over the little group of men on the ground. Cries arose, covering the desperate feminine pleas.

Four men. One woman, thrown upon the ground, her dress torn at the collar and face smeared with tears and dirt. Reddish strands were strewn over her face, partially hiding her eyes and the bruises at her throat. One of her legs, long and elegant, exposed white flesh that seemed peachy soft. Her hands were held by a man; her claws had dug creases over his arm and face if the red lines were an indication.

This was not what Tristan was expecting.

His appearance caused all present people to pause for a suspended moment. The young woman used it to her advantage, backing away furiously and throwing her foot into one of the men’s face. Her attacker roared in pain, backhanding her with so much force that she fell upon the road, stunned.

Jumping down his mare, Tristan unsheathed his sword with a purposeful move, all aches forgotten. Rage flew through his veins; the scout was no stranger to violence. He relished in extinguishing life efficiently, drank in the thrill of battle like nectar, washing his blade in the blood of his enemies. Men or women made no difference; any warrior that measured up to him met his end by his blade. But there was no duplicity in his heart. Despite rumours, Tristan wasn’t cruel, nor sadistic. He killed, as quickly and efficiently as possible, whomever accepted to attack him. A warrior’s honour, in which the assailant bowed to the skill of his opponent. May the best win.

Rape and unfair advantage would never come close to the acceptable. Even when he took a wench in his bed, sometimes a tad roughly, Tristan didn’t press his greater strength to subdue. His honour was to kill in battle, not to dominate a poor woman. Four against one… Four grown men over a young, weaker one. The scout spat his disgust on the ground.

Despicable.

Unacceptable.

Not that he cared about the young woman. But this show of cowardice couldn’t remain unpunished.

  * "Release her at once, or meet your death," he ground out.



Two of the men lifted their head from their amusement; the stunned woman spread on the muddy ground. Their eyes widened in astonishment. Covered in blood as he was, jaw clenched and eyes burning from the offence, Tristan marched upon them like an angel of death. The leader, though, still tangled against white, inviting flesh, sneered at him without even looking.

  * "Leave, ’tis none of yer business."
  * "Aye", another said. "We found her first"



Tristan’s eyes flashed. So be it, let the weak and stupid return to the ground. He was bone weary, too tired for any setback to last too long. He wanted a bath, and some rest, not to wrestle in the mud with obvious bandits. His blade lifted swiftly, dispatching the leader with a neat slice to his throat. The man collapsed upon his victim, a crimson fountain splashing her dress.

He was surprised not to hear a cry.

The others reacted to the aggression by springing to their feet. One fell before he could even stand. The second had the gall to attack him; Tristan send him down with a mighty dash across his chest. The fourth one, more intelligent than the others, attempted to flee, his eyes widened in fear. A dagger caught his back neatly. The man had ample time to contemplate Tristan’s boots as the scout retrieved the blade embedded in his upper back before the world went black.

The scout wiped his blade on his victim, his movements stiffer now the battle was over. Somewhere above his head, Hawk screeched again in reassurance. Tristan sheathed his beloved weapon before turning around, wondering if he should leave the young woman to fend for herself now that the threat had been eliminated. This was the plan. What he should have done. Perhaps he could send his brothers to retrieve her afterwards if she resumed her walk on the road. What care did he have for stupid women who travelled alone anyway? She would probably be out for some time anyway after the blow she received, or spend hours crying her fright away. Enough for Lancelot to find her and display his many charms. Woo her … maybe. Then break her heart. Who cared?

Tristan turned around, intent of walking back to his mare. His steps heavy, muscles aching from the exertion of the past days.

'Leave her here,' his exhaustion exhorted him.

Tristan nodded to his conscience. And albeit he knew he shouldn’t have, he couldn’t resist the pull that caused him to look back. A pair of terrified eyes met his intense gaze. Wide greenish pools upon a trembling face who refused to back down. Shock caused her whole frame to shake, her lower lip wavering, its rosy hue marred with blood. Her trembling hands clutched the tattered dress over her body, her legs still exposed as the woollen garment creased at the waist. The woman was so frightened that he expected her to faint. But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t release him from her intense scrutiny.

Tristan sighed, and slowly stepped closer. By then, he clearly saw the lines of her face harden as she took in his dreadful state. Old blood encrusted on his skin and clothes. Fresh crimson, the same that covered her chest, marred upon his clothes. His eyes barely visible under the unruly hair and braids that kept it out of his face, the hard lines of his features. She should have retreated away from him. In her state of shock, he expected her to cry out in fear or yell at him to back off.

She didn’t.


	2. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tristan starts to understand who is the woman he picked up on the road.

Tristan approached her as he would a wounded animal. She didn’t move an inch. And despite the horrible bruise on her cheek and throat, the dirt and tears, her matted hair and puffy eyes, he found the lines of her face disturbingly elegant. Just like the curve of her calf, prolonged by tiny, well-proportioned feet.

Kneeling close to her, Tristan’s eyes kept her gaze trapped as he slowly reached for the woollen garment. The woman tensed, interrogating him now. She was at his mercy, too tired to fight, aware that he overpowered more than these men ever could. Her milky white thighs exposed, her flesh inviting … tempting him to touch their warmth, their softness. His long fingers closed upon the fine fabric and then, only then did she close her eyes. Tears fell down her cheeks without a noise, her body still shaking as she repressed her sobs.

She wouldn’t fight.

He knew it, felt it. Like a female wolf submissive in front of the alpha. He knew that she was too exhausted, too emotionally spent to oppose him. A surrender; an honour of sorts, for she had fought those men tooth and nails, but would allow him to have her. Tristan’s hand gently pulled the dress over her legs, the gesture so tender that he marvelled at his own ability. His whole body ached but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her lovely face. The pure terror of her expression called his inner self to protect.

Tristan stood with a grunt, tugging at her hand. The young woman stood on wobbly legs, her balance uncertain and he hoisted her into his arms. His screaming muscles insulted him profusely, yet he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Especially when her arms wound themselves around his neck. The exhausted scout maneuvered the young lady upon his mare, thanking the animal for taking this extra weight. The wall wasn’t too far, and she was light. Still, it was an extra effort for his loyal steed who had gone through three days of scouting without much rest.

  * "Hold tight," he murmured to the young woman.



She shuddered against him as he managed to mount his mare and place her in his lap. A click of his tongue, and they his mount started walking again. By now, fresh blood was seeping from his armoured leather to her dress, adding extra taints to her ruined garment of the finest wool. The lady trembled in his arms, huddled against him so tightly that he hissed. Her embrace rubbed many of his wounds but there was not much he could do expect bear them. She, as well, probably ached from the bruises forming upon her. His hand brushed her arm when he reached for the reins, and Tristan realised that the young woman was frozen. Either from the shock, or from her lack of a protective cloak.

The scout pulled his heavy cape around them both, shielding the lady from the cold with a dusty, muddy, bloody layer of wool that smelt like death and horse. She didn’t protest, melting against him with a shake of her head. But not before sending him a very confusing look. For up close, the gleam in her eyes couldn’t be mistaken. Trust.

  * "Thank you," she uttered her teeth chattering.



Tristan nodded, gritting his teeth as the extra weight pulled at his numerous wounds. One of his ribs was probably cracked.

For a long while, neither of them said a thing. Then, gradually, her trembling subsided. The young woman’s posture straightened, easing the toll upon his own battered body as her weight didn’t rest so heavily upon his.

Tristan never knew what pushed him to strike a conversation, for nothing could be further from his habits. His curiosity, though, won over his mind. And it would prevent him from collapsing from sheer exhaustion. But his skills left to be desired still, hence the gruff sentence that passed his lips.

  * "You shouldn’t travel alone, it is not safe."



The young woman had the gall to snort, wiggling in his embrace and hitting his bruised ribs in the process. Tristan’s hiss of pain got drowned in her own rant.

  * "Neither is home. They would marry me off to this horrible Roman. A disgusting man, I couldn’t… I couldn’t."
  * "The alternative wasn’t much better."



His voice was stern, the words cut deeper than it should and the young woman suddenly tightened his blood caked cloak around her as if it could protect her.

  * "I was so close to the wall, I’ve been careless, walking on the road," she whispered.



The scout’s eyes roamed the surroundings, looking for threats. Ever watchful, even if they were now close enough to Hadrian’s wall.

  * "How long have you walked?" he asked.
  * "Four days."



His beard tickled her ear when he nodded, his contact strangely comforting despite the heavy equipment and metal scales. A safe anchor after the hardships of the past days…

Intertwined under the heavy cloak, Tristan couldn’t understand why her arms felt so comfortable over his battered body, nor how her warmth seeping through the leather of his pants brought him solace. Despite the discomfort of his wounds, the knight found the simple contact, devoid of any lust or seduction, puzzling. Hence the soft tone of his voice as he spoke.

  * "I’ll get you to the wall."



The woman seemed to literally deflate against him, her trembling starting anew. She had, after all, barely escaped defilement and death at his hands. Perhaps the experience was starting to seep into her soul, branding it, forever marked. Had her innocence crumbled before, or was it the first straw?

  * "Thank you, sir," she whispered her breath fanning against his collarbone.



Tristan tightened his hold with his left hand, ignoring the pang it sent through his side.

  * "I am Tristan, no sir."
  * "All right, sir Tristan."



The knight sent her a glare, hoping to convey that he was a man not to be mocked. Curiously, instead of cowering away, she met his gaze head on with a wavering smile.

  * "I can’t help but respect the man who saved my life, and denied the urge to take advantage of me."



A gleam of steel shone in her eyes, a determination that quelled Tristan’s anger. Her respect wasn’t false nor misplaced. For once in his life, he could actually accept her admiration; if not for him, her fate might have been sealed in the most gruesome way.

  * "I am Felicia," she eventually said.



Tristan nodded wearily. Exhaustion was slowly but surely washing through him, and keeping himself on the saddle took a toll that didn’t leave much room for conversation. For sure, he’d never talked so much before. Silence settled for a while, the young woman trying to keep herself upright as well. Riding sideways on someone’s lap probably was as uncomfortable for her than for him, and her frame still shook from time to time. Not that he could do anything about it.

When at last, they emerged from the forest and the Wall soared above them, the young woman gasped. For a second, Tristan wondered if he should have her dismount and enter the city by herself. Passing unnoticed would surely benefit her condition greatly… His hopes were dashed the moment her trembling voice reached him.

  * "Will I be safe at the wall … from men?"



The knight frowned. He had to admit she had perspective, and asked the right questions. The only issue being that … no. She was far too lovely to be safe from men, especially being a lone woman. At best, she would end up as a tavern wench, serving meals at day, whoring at night. Lancelot would probably try to woo her to death. And leave her afterwards, heartbroken.

Tristan’s silence lingered, heavy, upon their heads. And despite his horrendous smell – it discomfited his sensitive senses – her arm snaked around his back and she huddled against him, searching for his warmth. Her move startled him; was she seeking reassurance from him? Of all men, he was the one to which she entitled her trust?

Word blurted out of his mouth before he could squash them mercilessly.

  * "Say you are my woman, that will keep men away."



Horrified by his own proposal, Tristan could only stare at Isolde’ bruises features as her jaw hung open.

  * "But your wife sir…"
  * "I have no wife."



Little fingers settled on his armoured collarbone, her eyes searching for his. Tristan met her inquisitive glance without flinching.

  * "Surely you have a lover."



Tristan almost snorted. The naïveté of her words would have coaxed a laugh out of him, so long ago. But she truly believed he deserved a woman to love him; it was written, clear as day, upon her features. Her arrival at the wall would lift her blindness soon enough. There, she would withdraw her trust and learn how feared, how heartless the scout truly was. There she would hear stories and rumours, some of them partially true, and shy away from him until she trembled from his presence. Left to wonder why the ruthless scout, the man who relished in the fight, had not raped and killed her when he had the chance.

In the meantime, he could provide his protection. A masquerade that engaged his name and reputation, and would keep the little woman safe enough from Romans and other patrons.

  * "Are you much respected at the fort?" she asked shyly.



Tristan braced himself for the truth; that illusion of being a knight in shining armour had warmed his heart while it lasted; a break from heartache and self-loathing. Sadly, it couldn’t be further from the truth. His voice was harsh when he answered.

  * "I am feared. This is enough."



She only nodded. Afraid. The knight didn’t linger on it; he was used to the fear and contempt. His fatigued mind, instead, was already busy finding solutions. Not that he cared about the woman, mind you. But it wasn’t worth it if she got raped and ruined after he’d gone out of his way to save her life.

  * "You are noble, you know how to sew?"



She didn’t ask him how he knew. The material of her dress and perspective of a forced marriage was evidence to whomever was intelligent enough to put the pieces together.

  * "Aye, sir, more than most"



There, the solution looked him in the face. How convenient.

  * "The seamstress will have you, she owes me. Better you change your name, though"



The young woman turned to the wall, her wary eyes taking in the looming shadows projected by the massive structure. Her jaw squared, her fingers fisting his cloak as she took her decision. Yes, Felicia was dead now.

  * "Thank you, sir. I will be the seamstress’s apprentice, and your woman if you allow it."




	3. The bath house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tristan considers his options

Five days passed since the knight delivered her upon the seamstress doorstep. Enough for her bruises to start fading. Enough for a clean-up – there was no bathtub here – some needed sustenance, and for her mind to come to terms with the situation. Enough for her to accept that Felicia, the roman noble, had died.

Isolde. An Irish name, to honour her roots. This is who she would be now.

Her long, reddish hair was braided now, hidden under a cap. Her coarse woollen dress had belonged to another; it hid her form well enough, as well as her former status. Rendered her a shadow amongst the people of the fort, head bowed, a servant of little lineage. Her mother always said that nobility was earned, not inherited, and that it came from within. Now, there was nothing that could remotely sell her ties to a Roman family. Except for her hands, fine and delicate, so unlike a working woman.

While the seamstress berated her about her choice of company, the middle-aged woman couldn’t be happier with her new apprentice. And albeit she suspected Isolde to be of noble descent – stitches never lied and it certainly left nothing to be desired – she wouldn’t say or word nor ask a question.

The seamstress’ fear of the scout was enough to refrain her curiosity … but not so much that she couldn’t warn her young charge about his ways. They said him cruel, ruthless and sadistic. The silent knight certainly could instill fear in anyone’s heart with barely a look: imagination supplied the rest. But the seamstress owed him her life and that of her son, so she kept her mouth shut.

Isolde, for her part, wasn’t more talkative than the taciturn scout. She listened, nodded and learnt the tricks of an experienced professional with curiosity. Before leaving, Tristan had pressed how important it was that no one knew about her, not even his Commander Artorius Castus for he would be bound to bring her back home. Isolde could only agree; if her father had an inkling of her location, she would be dragged back to her despicable betrothed.

As the needle flew in her hands, thread mending fabric much coarser than she was used to, Isolde wondered if the scout had forgotten about his proposal. She’d spotted him in the morning, hair askew and weapons at the ready on his long leather vest; he was buying apples at a stall. The pronounced limp in his gait had caused her to worry; had he been wounded that day?

In her daze – the aftermath of her ordeal – she had forgotten to look for signs. Now that she replayed their encounter without the veil of fear, she couldn’t help but remember his winces and hisses of pain as they rode. And his slightly stiff manner when he’d knelt beside her, his warm fingers replacing the dress over her exposed legs. A frown marred her features when he left the market.

Would he keep his promise? The seamstress alone wouldn’t be able to pass the message on; the little shop saw too little people for them to start spreading a rumour, and she wasn’t daft enough to sing it at the top of her lungs. She wasn't about to dub herself the "scout's woman" in the market place; shyness and upbringing recoiled at the very notion. After all, his reputation was fiery; messing with it could only be dangerous. Better to let him handle things his way; he knew the terrain – the fort and its people – and her enemies.

Little did she know that, late in this afternoon, Tristan was scrubbing himself raw at the bathing house. Washing his skin with a little more care than was necessary. All because now, at long last, his wounds were clear of infection and he could soak in warm water. Nothing to do with his hesitation to bring the new apprentice to the tavern, of course. Could he let it go? Trust the seamstress to keep her safe in her little shop, and fend the Romans away? No. He’d spotted her at the market out of the corner of his eye; he wasn’t the only one. Others had followed her lovely silhouette, eying the tiny waist and assumed long legs with envy.

Despite the coarse woollen dress and the modest neckline, despite the handkerchief covering her reddish hair, her noble poise and features stood out. Her posture, especially, sold her breeding; it oozed out of her form. He’d been truthfully surprised that she had not protested about being an apprentice at the seamstress. Most Roman nobles would have sneered at the idea to work for one’s living. Instead, she had thanked him profusely, grateful for the opportunity for food, shelter and a proper work.

Good.

The woman was clever enough to possess some clarity; she was under no illusion of what could become of a lovely and lonely maiden in the streets. Many men would pay to subdue a former noble, relishing in the possibility to humiliate one of the well-off girls they usually had to bow to. The opportunity for a well-deserved revenge…

Working at the seamstress could save her life is she played the part properly. The memory of the proud gleam in her eyes, though, told him of her resilience. She was bound to be noticed by others than himself. Even if he was the most perceptive of them all; it only gave him a head start.

Frowning intently, the scout stood in the bathhouse, water pooling at his waist. Angry red lines marred his chest and back on the left side, dark hair covering his pectorals and lower belly. His long hair dripped along his lean muscles, braids undone, droplets forming a trail along his upper back before plunging back in the pool.

Romans looked upon his form with contempt, disgust barely hidden in their dark eyes. Beardless and shaved; he was a barbarian to them, a Sarmatian dog. The wildest of his brothers – if not the biggest –a savage beast to them delicate overgrown children. Romans loved little boys, purity and flawless skin. They loved their women depilated, white milky skin upon soft skin. Not unlike the seamstress’s apprentice.

Fire pooled beneath his sore muscles, fists tightening under the surface.

A word was a word. No matter if it complicated things. Tristan was no coward.

Sir Tristan’s appearance at the shop sent the seamstress into a fit of coughing. And despite her fear, the little woman’s protectiveness soared forth, displaying courage that earned the knight’s respect just as well as his ire.

  * "Are you sure it is safe to associate her with the likes of you?" she glared at the man.



Isolde gasped at the blatant insult, her reddening cheeks – he had asked her to come to the tavern ! – swiftly reflecting her anger. The knight didn’t need her indignation for he strode to the seamstress and faced her, his body swift and supple. His voice was as calm as the surface of the lakes littering the countryside, smooth and deep. But one couldn't ignore the darkness that lurked within.

  * "She is my woman. She will do as I see fit."



The seamstress shrunk under his glare, and Isolde started to understand what people meant regarding the scout. No more was said as he ripped the cap out of her braids to throw it on the counter before leading her in the cobbled street. The evening was mild, the weather undetermined as was his wont to be in this island. The setting sun promised for a colder night, but for the moment, an orange glow bathed the fort with its glorious hues.

She knew the light would set fire to her hair, but didn’t expect it to paint Tristan's darker one with rusty colours. Discreetly, she stole a glance at the man beside her. Washed and tamed, braids neatly done, Tristan’s hair looked almost soft. His tattoos stood out upon the defined cheekbones – for once free of loose strands – and his eyes ranged from grey to amber. He was much taller than she was, and his proud gait certainly didn’t make him more accessible. Still, she could discern the remains of a limp.

Her fingers reached for his arm and the knight stilled, sending her an inquisitive look. Damn, his scrutiny was so intense that she almost forgot her name. Which, in retrospect, could be an idea.

  * "You didn’t tell me you were hurt, Sir."



He accepted the title without protest this time.

  * "It wasn’t relevant," he responded smoothly.



His voice washed over her like the silks she used to wear before her demise, and she could only comply when he asked her – no, ordered – to turn around. She felt long fingers deftly untying the cord of her braids, his hands running into the long reddish strands to splay them over her back. His gestures were gentle, focused, and so intimate that… Registering the shock, Isolde turned around abruptly.

  * "What …?"
  * "People must recognise you easily. It is a statement that you belong to me."



Belong, what a horrible concept! Scrunching her nose, the young woman nodded, passing a hand into her mane to entangle the curls with the force of habit. Tristan’s eyes followed her movement, his expression unreadable until he seemed to shake out of his haze and started walking anew. Well … striding anew, for his legs were awfully long.

Rather than yell at him to slow down, Isolde reached for his arm and linked it through hers, hoping it would give him the measure of her own steps. It did, but the gesture caused his eyebrows to disappear in the midst of his mane. Sir Tristan probably wasn't used to having a damsel hanging from his arm. What about the women he bedded casually ? Did they not claim his arm as well ? Perhaps not. Isolde had to admit that I was out of her depth here.

For a moment, they progressed in the streets under watchful gazes. It was oddly comfortable to walk by his side, her fingers looped around his leather vest. For the first time, Isolde realised that she trusted a man. And so, she gave him her most trusted secret.

  * "Isolde"



The knight gave her an interrogative glance.

  * "This is my name, now"



He nodded, and without hassle the subject was closed. There were many frowns upon people’s face, disapproving, curious and incredulous alike. Perhaps she was wrong … perhaps she shouldn’t. Isolde shrunk beside the knight, almost starting when he addressed her.

  * "You need to play the part. My brothers in arms are rowdy and crude. If you want my protection, you must be ready to face them."
  * "All right. I am ready."



Tristan lifted an eyebrow – the challenge gleaming in his eyes – and she suddenly noticed how faintly marked they were. Like a touch of a bird’s feather hoovering over his amber eyes, a shade of dark blonde usually buried under his unruly fringe.

  * "Then I will make my claim upon you."



Isolde shivered.


	4. A lonely kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Isolde learns what 'making a claim' means.

Without giving her time to process what 'making his claim' exactly meant, Tristan strode to the tavern’s open court and settled at the knight’s table. Isolde' eyes barely had time to take in the layout and the different mops of curls – or shaved heads – of the knights before he swept her legs and pulled her into his lap. Whistles erupted from the other side of the table – his brothers in arms, probably. Shocked by the expense of body that now touched hers, Isolde gulped and buried her face in the crook if his neck, cheeks flaming red.

The respectable lady in her – raised with manners and a strong sense of dignity – was bleeding on the floor, eyes wide with shame, while her inner self couldn’t help but feel the warmth, the strength seeping from his tall frame. And his scent, a mix between olive soap and something more masculine, lurking behind the scented oils of the bathhouse, surrounded her, asking for surrender.

And surrender she did.

The choke hold slightly loosened as she breathed out, realising the intelligence of the scout’s action. Her outrage abated somehow; if Tristan had warned her, she would have recoiled. She might have sat by his side, all noble and Roman looking – thank God her mother was an Irish lady – and not one of this rowdy crowd would have bought the act.

If they wanted this scheme to succeed, she couldn’t afford to act coy but damn … she wasn't a tavern wench and it took all her will power, and the assault to her senses, to tame the reflex to push the scout away and run. It went against everything she had been raised… But when she managed to calm her racing heart, Isolde realised that the contact wasn’t as uncomfortable as she thought.

The memory of his smelly coat surrounding them, on the road, was still fresh; it wasn't the first time she and the scout shared such close quarters. His body against her side wasn't unfamiliar; it was reassuring. Like a sturdy rock, supporting her.

Many words were exchanged around the table, some Latin, some Briton, and some in a language she didn’t understand. Sarmatian, maybe? Another one she would learn if she wanted to blend in at the fort.

Tristan didn’t participate, his body slightly moving as he lifted an arm to signal a tavern wench for food. She was grateful for the time he gave her to come to terms with this … ploy. When at last, Isolde found the courage to lift her face, the scout stilled. His whole body tensed, muscles flexing against hers, his clean shirt opening slightly to reveal dark curls upon his chest. His hand came to rest upon her upper back, seeping warmth and reassurance. And when he spoke, his deep voice caused his brothers to settle, their voices dying.

"My little lady is shy. Mind your tongue"

There, the claim was made, and met with unearthly silence. Then the knights started talking all at once, some lifting their mugs in her direction, others eyeing her suspiciously. Tristan’s hold tightened around her, his hands careful not to grope any uncomfortable part – that man had honour, at least! His contact brought solace, just like he had after saving her from … rape.

Repressing a shudder, Isolde eventually started to study the other knights sitting at the table. They were only four of them, not a thousand like the noise suggested. A bald man, barrel chested with a very loud mouth, a young one with wild dark curls, a tawny-haired knight with hair longer than hers and a kind face seated on their right. The last one shared common traits with some Romans she’d met, except that he sported a dark goatee and dark curls, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Lancelot."

Tristan’s whisper caressed her ear, startling her. How did the scout know her eyes were set on the dark knight in front of them? Did anything escape him at all? Angling her head, she searched the scout’s eyes for further explanation. The intensity of his smouldering gaze caused her breath to hitch; she had forgotten his face would be so close to hers.

Never before had she sat on another man’s lap … not even her father as a child such was her loathing of the man. But here it seemed that tavern wenches took turns trying men’s laps. Whores or girlfriends with little manners? Was she supposed to impersonate such a girl?

From there, she could distinguish the streaks of gold into Tristan’s light brown gaze. Flustered, she couldn’t detach her attention from him, her breath fanning upon his face. The scout’s eyes slightly tightened in the corner, as if he was inwardly laughing, before his calloussed fingers brushed a stray strand of her hair aside.

The gesture was tender, his hand so warm that she closed her eyes in rapture. Slowly, he followed the reddish curl with his fingers, brushing her back from shoulder to waist before his hand settled at her hip. Isolde barely refrained a moan, slowly melting against the knight whose contact caused her skin to tingle.

Damn, the man certainly knew how to put on a show!

"Be wary, he’s a womaniser."

His voice caressed her senses, sending her in another world altogether until his hand retreated, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Isolde opened her eyes.

"Uh?"

"Lancelot"

Realisation dawned. Right, the dark knight across the table was Lancelot, and Tristan was warning her to stay away – as if she would greet a knight of her own volition ! Isolde almost wished he wouldn’t be so very distracting while doing so but the scout was doing a very good job at convincing people. Fortunately, a red-haired woman, also known as Vanora, settled two bowls of stew and mugs of ale in front of them. Her quiet thanks earned her a very curious look before the woman was whisked away in the busy tavern.

"Vanora, she is Bors’ lover."

"And the mother of his ten children," added the blond knight with long tawny hair. "I’m Gawain, it is nice to meet a woman crazy enough to accept our scout,"

Isolde smiled, nodding to the gentle-looking knight without a word. What could she possibly answer to that? If even Tristan's brothers demeaned him … well, she felt bad for the man who had saved her life, and went out of his way to ensure her safety now. Ignoring Gawain’s comment, Tristan dislodged her from his lap rather abruptly so that they could partake in their meal.

Was he angry? Or just naturally brusque? The change caught her off guard, as well as the sudden loss of contact. Not a word was exchanged between them as they ate, Isolde’ ears picking jokes and theories about their meeting. Tristan seemed impervious to teasing; yet she could see the whitening of his knuckles on the wooden spoon once in a while. Ill at ease, she ate the clear stew without much gusto, awaiting for the moment when she could retreat back to her tiny cot in the seamstress's shop.

The arrival of two other knights, a cheerful redhead and a giant whose piercing eyes sent Isolde’ eyes back into her stew, changed the mood anew. The giant rumbling voice echoed across the table as he introduced himself, his companion settling beside Galahad.

"I am Dagonet, and this is Percival. I am pleased to meet Tristan’s lady."

The title sent warmth to her chest and red to her cheeks; there was something noble in the idea to be a knight’s lady. And albeit Dagonet’s manners were gentle, his clear blue eyes settled on the scout with a loaded look. Had he seen through the scheme? Perhaps they should have awaited for the knights to be more inebriated; Galahad – the curly youngster – seemed much into his cups already. But not the giant.

Dagonet didn’t keep conversation flowing either, settling on Isolde’ other side and ordering his own dinner. With such a frame, Isolde wondered how much ale, or wine would be needed to get this knight drunk. Did Tristan ever get drunk? He didn’t seem like a man who would enjoy losing control, but you never knew. Appearance could be deceptive… The first time she’d seen her father inebriated, she had not recognised him at all. Those horrid memories … she hoped they would fade with time.

Isolde observed the scout by her side, silently eating as she fended off questions about their meeting, or their courting. She tried to dodge them but Lancelot, in particular was relentless in his harassment, arguing that a pretty little thing like her would be much better suited to adorn his knees than the gruff scout’s.

Isolde reined her tongue, using her quiet manners and shyness as an excuse, leaving the talking to Tristan who provided just the right amount of information to render it plausible. They had met in the forest near her village, she was now the seamstress’s apprentice whuch caused them to renew their acquaintance.

Period.

But Lancelot didn’t relent, and thus caused Isolde’ ire to rise. Men like him, thinking women only existed to embellish their life, made her itch for a knife. Perhaps a well-aimed knee to the balls could fend him off…

"I thank you for your compliments, kind sir, but I am not interested in any other man than the one I have," she eventually told him icily.

A laugh greeted her words, Galahad’s drunken state causing him to find amusement in her irritated retort. But not Tristan. Perhaps her wording was too refined, the sentence too convoluted for the tavern. Had she stupidly sold herself? Was he angry that she had called him 'her man '?

The loud bang of a cup hitting the table startled the knights and many tables around them, all merriment dying instantly. Tristan stood, his fist tightly woven around his mug. His glare, directed at Lancelot, sent shivers down Isolde’ spine. Had she been his spouse, the young woman might have tried to soothe the scout and smooth the other knight’s feathers. As it was, she was rather unsure of how far her part was supposed to go. How would the untamable scout react to her interference? Better not to try in case he became violent.

"When our service is over, we are to be married. I don’t want to hear another word about it, understood?"

Air left Isolde's lungs with a whoosh. For a ploy, it felt very, very real.

Galahad nodded vehemently, his eyes closing as the world probably started spinning around him. Gawain’s clear 'Aye' was seconded by Bors, and Dagonet remained silent. The waves of anger that oozed out of the scout’s still form were frightening. The staring contest between Tristan and Lancelot went on for a moment more until the dark knight relented.

"Fine, fine! I was only jesting."

The scout released the mug on the table and whirled around, grasping Isolde's neck so swiftly that a squeak escaped her. His fingers curled at her nape, pulling her upright with a controlled move. There was no warning whatsoever before his full lips captured hers in an intense and angry kiss. All sense left her as her knees weakened, her hands grasping his leather vest tightly. His hot breath, laden with ale, barely concealed the taste of him – a delight! – as his tongue brushed her lips away, ravishing her mouth the moment she granted entrance.

Stunned, Isolde could barely respond to his ministrations; her toes curled, her muscles tensed, a million sensations shooting through her veins. How could such a crude contact be so confusing? He invaded her entirely, his sensual lips massaging hers, tongue swirling, caressing, coaxing… A whimper escaped her as her fingers tightened in a vice grip over his shirt; a desperate attempt to ground her essence. Her mind barely registered that his large hands held her so close, that her whole body was flush against him… wanting more closeness. Begging.

Then, before she could even react, the kiss ended, leaving her as bereft as a sinking ship at sea. Breath short, eyes wide, she let him lead her out of the tavern in a haze. Behind them, whoops and whistles had invaded the place, but Tristan's quiet voice covered them easily.

"The Romans have noted, as have the Britons. Go home now, little lady"

Isolde bit her lip, finding it swollen and strangely … lonely. Her feelings were all over the place, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her. Fleeing, being beaten and almost raped, rescued and kissed senseless by a man whose reputation made shopkeeper trembling in their boots.

Being left alone now of all time, flustered in this unknown place with no idea about the future was a mighty blow to her countenance. Her wide emerald eyes begged him for his protection and Tristan gave her a levelled stare, searching her face. Then he sighed, relenting. This was the man whom people talked about, spreading tales of massacres and sadism?

As he offered his arm to take her home, the giant knight suddenly appeared by their side.

"What happened?" he asked, clear blue eyes watching them both.

Tristan cocked his head aside like a little animal considering his options before answering.

"She needs protection," he simply said.

And Dagonet nodded as they departed, the young woman clinging to his brother’s arm so tightly that he feared for the scout’s appendage. This little conversation meant everything or nothing at all, but Dagonet caught the meaning well enough. This is how Isolde learnt that he was the only other knight the scout trusted.

Days passed, months even. Since Tristan never responded to the teasing, his brothers eventually got bored and stopped asking questions about his lady. Its novelty wore off, and even Lancelot, who never got a rise of Isolde, decided that teasing Bors and Vanora was much nicer.

The scout still came to the seamstress every few weeks, inviting her to partake lunch, or breakfast at the tavern’s table to keep up the pretence. Sometimes, they talked at the market at the apple’s stall. By then, Isolde had got used to sitting in the knight’s lap. Despite her earlier misgivings that she was not THAT kind of woman – a tavern wench – she had come to accept and enjoy the contact of Tristan’s body against hers. Somehow, it felt a little unfair that everybody thought they slept together when, in fact, this was the boldest move they had ever shared.

And sadly, he never felt the need to kiss her again.

**_I wish to thank all those who left kudos on my work, it means so much to me to be read._ **


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